by Peggy Webb
“We could take him back where we found him.”
“Somebody at the convention center wants Lovie to be charged for murder. You want to produce the body that might get her sent to the electric chair?”
“Well, then what are we going to do?”
“The next secluded beach area you see, give a yell. We’re going to throw him into the Gulf and let him become somebody else’s problem.”
Or fish bait. I’ve seen monsters out there big enough to swallow the victim in one gulp. He wouldn’t even be a snack, let alone a whole meal.
Speaking of which, this hot dog is mighty tasty but I’m beginning to get resentful that I was deprived of fried chicken because of murder. The nerve of some people!
Chapter 3
Lies, Rumors and Hissy Fits
This break is the longest fifteen minutes in the history of man. I’m still wearing my apron and the pink snood, which is hotter than I thought it would be, my hair all bunched up back there on my neck. Sweating is not the least bit lady-like and here I am, glowing like I’ve been struck by lightning.
It’s my nerves. Not a single person in this convention hall has budged since they announced a break. We’re all afraid of missing something.
The loud speaker crackles again, and Lovie pinches me like I need reminding something awful is afoot.
“The roast beef cookout is postponed until four o’clock, at which time we will resume with Clark Stanford of Ocean Springs as the fifth judge.”
Obviously, they’re giving him time to drive over so he can take the place of George Ransom. Which means George has truly vanished. All I can say is thank goodness, that has nothing to do with me. Also, thank goodness, Mama and Fayrene are safe at the beach, where the only trouble they’re liable to get into is sand in their food.
The hall erupts with everybody talking at once and people acting like rats in a maze, including Jeff Taft, who races toward his wife Melinda, and Tootie Ransom, who has suddenly gone from smiling to near hysteria. Two women I don’t know are holding her up and another is fanning her with a section of newspaper.
“Quick, Cal.” Lovie grabs my arm. “Let’s find the rest of my carving set. I know it’s here somewhere.”
“So do I, Lovie. I remember unpacking it.”
We both hunker behind her cooking station, which is big enough to hide even a 190-pound bombshell like Lovie. Neither one of us is in the mood for talk. We just squat there systematically searching for the missing carving knife.
“Where did that red-headed tart disappear to?”
Holy cow! That voice belongs to Doris Shackley, standing too close for comfort. And I’m willing to bet she’s not talking about pastries with strawberry jam. Lovie starts to jump up and face her enemy, but I grab hold of her sleeve and hold her down by main force.
“I don’t know, Mother.” Cole has this prissy voice that belies his size and his age. “As you can see, I’m busy here.”
“Well, you can bet if George Ransom is missing, Lovie Valentine had something to do with it.”
Lovie’s quivering like a racehorse at the starting gate, but I shake my head and scowl to show I mean business. I’m not about to let her do whatever she has in mind for Doris. Might I add that if looks could kill, Doris would be dead on the spot?
“Please, Mother, stop saying that. I’m just trying to get along with everybody. Besides, I don’t think those rumors are true.”
“You can look at them and tell they are. Her, wearing strumpet clothes that advertise the merchandise, and him, eyeing her like she’s a piece of candy.”
“Mother, you need to shut up! I can think of several reasons George would take a powder, and Lovie Valentine is not one of them.” Cole just went up a notch in my estimation. “Come on!”
Cole seems anxious to talk to his mother in private, and I wait until I can no longer hear their footsteps before I release my hold on Lovie.
“Reckon why George would want to skip out, Lovie?”
“Who cares? Just help me find my knife. There’s something I need to carve, and it’s not rump roast.”
“Let’s get out of here before you get us into trouble. We could both use a break.”
Thank goodness, she doesn’t argue. We grab our purses and trot toward the elevators. Suddenly she jerks me in the entirely wrong direction.
“Through here, Callie. It’ll be quicker.”
I don’t know how she figures that. We enter a maze of hallways that goes on forever. Twice we open a door only to discover it leads to a small meeting room.
“If George Ransom decided to ditch the cooking competition, there are certainly plenty of places he could hide.”
“Callie, would you stop with this amateur detective stuff? I just want to get off my feet.”
At the rate we’re going, Lovie won’t get off her feet till Gabriel toots his horn or she’s Raptured, whichever comes first. I could use a little respite, myself. I still haven’t heard back from Mama, and my imagination now has her in the nearest hospital with a failing liver. She’s not one of those decrepit seniors by a long shot, but she lives life in the fast lane. You never know when she’s going to barrel right in front of a train.
I’m beginning the think we’re lost when I spot the elevators. There’s a crowd trying to get on the first one and we have to wait our turn for the second. Who should head our way but Tootie Ransom? She hasn’t seen us yet, which gives me time to observe that she’s either made a miraculous recovery from her hysteria or she was doing a good job of acting back in the cooking hall. Also, she’s by herself.
I punch Lovie in the ribs, and nod in Tootie’s direction.
“What?” Lovie’s testy, and who can blame her?
“I don’t think her closest friends would have left her if they thought she was in danger of collapsing.”
“Only a fool would collapse over George, and Tootie’s no fool.”
Tootie spots us just as the second elevator arrives. “Hold it for me,” she yells as she trots along on a pair of Jimmy Choo heels I’d die for. A peep-toe pair of pumps in a gorgeous shade of bronze.
She slides into the elevator and gives Lovie the evil eye. Then she puts her hand over her heart and tries to look tearful, but she’s too late to fool me.
“Thanks. I’ve had enough excitement for the day.”
That what she calls losing her husband? Excitement?
“Have they located George yet?” I ask, and she has the good grace to tear up. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“No, no. I’m just tired, that’s all. I’m sure he’s all right.”
“You are?” This, from Lovie, who is staring at Tootie like she’s just landed from Mars. “I’ve never known George to be late for a cooking competition.”
“Well…” Tootie clutches her throat like she’s swallowed something that didn’t agree. “We…He’s been preoccupied lately, a bit scattered, if you must know. He said he was going down to the beach to do some thinking.”
Tootie is suddenly mesmerized by a spot just beyond my head. What is it? A spider? A wad of chewing gum? I have to use my considerable self-control to keep from turning around and looking behind me.
“And lost track of time?” I ask, and Lovie rolls her eyes. Holy cow, has she forgotten that the two of us have cracked cases that stumped the real law enforcement?
“Probably. I’m going to change into a swimsuit and see if I can’t catch up with him.”
The elevator doors slide open on the fifth floor, and Tootie hurries out, with us right behind her. She jumps like a horse thief being chased by the posse.
“Oh, are you on this floor, too?”
“Yes.” Lovie pulls out our room key. “Right next to you, looks like.”
“Oh, well…” Tootie clutches her throat again. Maybe she’s got a condition. I’m about to suggest she gargle with salt water when she recovers and gives us a gay little wave. “Ta da, then!”
Lovie’s about to explode. I jab her in the ribs and hustle us thro
ugh the door.
“Ta da? Ta da? Is she insane?’
“Mama sometimes says tootle doo.”
“Yes, but that’s Aunt Ruby Nell.” She tosses her purse toward the luggage rack and misses. “If Tootie gives me the evil eye again, I’m going slap her into next Tuesday.” I pick up her purse while Lovie kicks off her shoes and flops across the bed. “Wake me up at fifteen till four.”
“I will.” I hurry to the bathroom and jerk off the pink snood then set about repairing the damage to my hair. Fortunately, I have this sleek, shiny bob that falls right back into place the minute I start brushing. This is one of the advantages of owning a hair salon. I get to set the standard for beauty.
I give my hair one last shake and then whip my cell phone out to call Mama. It rings four times and then goes to voice mail.
“Mama, where in the world are you? I’m not kidding around. You need to keep in touch so I can inform you of any changes to the schedule. There’s been a big one, but I’m not going to waste my breath explaining it right now.”
Mama never listens to her phone messages, anyway. I don’t know why I even bothered to leave one. Lovie’s snoring when I get back into the room, and I’m careful not to wake her when I go to the closet for my pink terry cloth robe. It’s a favorite of mine, partially because I love the color, but mostly because it reminds me of sitting on the porch swing with Jack, sharing a cup of his delicious Mayan hot chocolate and more than a little kiss or two.
I jerk out my phone and send him a text: Love you, miss you. Can’t wait to see you. Project baby, here we come!
Somewhere in this world, he’ll see that and know I’m thinking about him. He’ll text back. Or call. Or not, depending on where he is whether somebody is shooting at him.
Suddenly a scream raises every perfect hair on my head. Lovie bolts straight out of bed, crashes into the night stand and utters a proclamation that endangers her hope of an afterlife.
“Holy cow! What was that?”
There’s another scream. This one so piercing it rattles the connecting door.
“Tootie,” I yell, and then race into the hall and start banging on her door. Lovie crashes into me, and we fall into Tootie’s room when she jerks the door open.
It takes a minute to untangle myself from my cousin. Thank goodness, Tootie has stopped screaming, but it didn’t improve things very much. Her hair looks like somebody’s been in it with the mixer, her face is devoid of all color, and she’s shaking so hard she’s in danger of dropping the note in her hand.
“What is it, Tootie?” I ask, and she rams her free hand back through her hair. I refrain from giving beauty advice. She’s in no condition to hear that jerking on her hair like that is splitting her ends and doing no telling what-all to the roots.
“This…this!”
Lovie barrels in Tootie’s direction and looks down at the note. For somebody who wasn’t going to get involved, she is certainly fast on the trigger.
“What does it say, Lovie?”
“It says don’t even think about leaving this hotel. We’ve got a score to settle.”
“Who’s it from?”
“No signature, Cal.”
That’s when I notice Tootie’s red suitcase open on the bed with silk exploding from all corners. It looks like she stood on the other side of the room and threw her stuff in the general direction.
“You were leaving?” I ask. “With George still missing?”
Tootie has the good grace to give me a sheepish look.
“Well, you know…we live only fifty miles from here, and I was going to leave George a note taped to the bathroom mirror, which is where I found this one. I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
“What about this note?” Lovie says. “Do you have any idea who sent it?”
“Absolutely not.” Tootie’s face turns red, and I can’t tell if she’s lying or just simply upset.
“Let’s try not to get anymore fingerprints on it.” I hope she thinks I’m helpful instead of bossy. One of my pet peeves is somebody else telling me what to do.
Tootie nods while Lovie heads to the bathroom. Her search is so noisy it sounds like fifteen people in their having a block party. But when she emerges, she’s got a length of toilet paper and a plastic bag that once held cotton balls. With the expertise of a seasoned sleuth, she grabs the note with the toilet paper and drops it into the plastic bag.
“Do you have any idea what this score might be?” I ask Tootie.
“I don’t have a clue. I don’t even know if it’s for me.”
“Was George here when you came downstairs to the cook-off?” Lovie has finally shifted into full detective mode.
“Yes…no?”
Holy cow! He either was or he wasn’t. Still, it’s not every day your husband just vanishes on you. I put my arm around Tootie’s shoulders. “I know this is hard for you. And we want to help as much as we can.”
She sags and I lead her to a chair then squat down to pat her hand. “It’s going to be all right. I’m sure they’ll find him around here somewhere.”
“He mentioned going to the beach, but then I went into the bathroom to finish dressing, and when I came back out, he still had on his pants and that garish purple shirt his awful mother gave him.”
“So you left first?”
“Well, actually, no, he left a little bit before me.”
“Going for a walk on the beach?”
“Maybe. I can’t be sure. We didn’t…I didn’t…see him again. But one thing is for certain, there was no note in this room when I left.”
Lovie and I exchange a glance that says this note changes everything.
My cousins picks up the phone to call security – over Tootie’s protests, might I add - while I explain to Tootie why this is now a matter for the law.
As much as I’d like to hear what Tootie will tell them, particularly since I think she’s been lying to us, it’s almost time for the roast beef cook-off. Lovie and I race to our room to change and then head back downstairs.
By the time we get back to the cooking hall, there’s a rumor circulating that somebody spotted George in the casino. But I notice the place is crawling with uniformed members of the Biloxi Police Department. George just went from a man who might be found walking along the beach to a man with enemies who have a score to settle.
Elvis’ Opinion #4
Elvis’ Opinion #4 on Poems, Potato Salad and the Stranger in the Purple Shirt
It’s not every day you watch two senior women haul a cadaver out of the potato salad and drag him through the palmetto grass to shove him into the Gulf. But he’s in no hurry to go anywhere. He floats there a bit while Ruby Nell and Fayrene stand beside me, huffing and puffing and chanting. Ruby Nell’s muttering, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” though there’s not a spec of ashes to be seen.
The dust part, I can agree on. A wind whips up what anybody else would call a dust ball. To me, it’s a sandstorm, just about the right size to wash over me like waves over the Titanic. I do a little shake, rattle and roll while Fayrene chants, “Tomatoes ripe, float out of sight. Carrot soup and a sloppy Joe, hurry up and off you go.”
“Fayrene, I didn’t know you could write poetry.” Ruby Nell is obviously impressed, which leaves yours truly wondering about her taste in literature.
“I won the trophy in the high school protest. My teacher was so proud she put on a deception for me.”
“You ought to dust off that trophy and display it at Gas, Grits and Guts.”
“I could put it by the mirror ball over the pickled pigs’ lips. It would be a boom for business.”
Indeed. And I’m going to get shot dead and come back in the next life as an untalented bunny rabbit.
The cadaver is still lingering at the edge of the Gulf, and the women start chanting again. I can see it’s all up to me. I trot my portly but handsome self into the water. I don’t even want to think about what’s squishing under my feet and swimming down there next to
my private parts. Listen, this is the one and only time I’ve wished I’d been sent back as a Great Dane.
I butt my head against the body to give it a big shove, and my famous nose is suddenly overloaded with the scent of trouble.
“Hurry up, Elvis,” Ruby Nell yells, and I finish the job like a seasoned pro. The body sways a bit then catches the next wave and heads into the Gulf. But not before I’ve imprinted the scent of murder. When I catch that scent again, I won’t stop to ask the villain how’s the world been treatin’ you. This fabulous dog will light right in and take a bite out of crime.
Finally I trot out of the water, and Ruby Nell dries my coat with a beach towel. Then we all stand at the water’s edge till the stranger in the purple shirt has floated out of sight.
“This calls for a celebration,” Ruby Nell says, and nobody here thinks she’s lost her mind. If you listen to the news all the time, you figure there are no more good times in this world. Smart people like Ruby Nell grab hold of the least little thing to celebrate – not giving a stranger a watery burial, but solving a problem somebody else dumped into your car trunk.
We climb back into the car and nobody says a word till Ruby Nell has backed us out of the palmetto grass, found the road back to the resort, and checked us into cottage number three. While they unload, I scope out the perimeter.
I catch a glimpse of the black sedan parked across the road, but the minute they glimpse this formidable canine detective, they high tail it. I watch till the car vanishes and then I give notice to a couple of goofy sea gulls that this dog is in charge. They flap their silly feathers off to heartbreak hotel while I flop down on the screened-in back porch and wait for Ruby Nell and Fayrene to emerge with a pitcher of prohibition punch and enough PupPeroni to fill the empty spot I always get when I’m up to my noble neck in crime.
“Fayrene, don’t say a word about all this to Callie.”
“I wouldn’t mention it if I was tied to a stake and fixing to be eaten by cannonballs.” Fayrene takes a long, fortifying drink of her liquored up punch. “I just thought of something. We forgot to throw away the murder weapon.”
